I can't tell you how many of my comments have been deleted. Simple, innocuous, goofy comments that were deleted after I responded to a 'friend' post on Facebook. And every time it happens, it reminds me of every awkward social situation I've ever been in where I've inadvertently said the wrong thing. The douche chills are bad enough for me to want to delete my Facebook account, throw my computer into a fire, and punch myself in the penis.
This is what I do. I overreact.
It's hard enough trying to understand someone's intent by looking at their face, it's even harder when you add the psychological distance created by a Facebook post. It's like talking to someone with their back turned to you. All you get is the raw, unfiltered message without the emotional cues provided by reading a person's face. Then add the fact that people are far too open on Facebook and you get a recipe for disaster.
Facebook is full of people I have no psychological connection to, posting (what I do not perceive at the time are) very personal updates that I, as a reader, don't understand the context of. I make a humorous anecdote, free of offense. The person deletes the comment and my computer gets ever closer to the fire. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
As of late, any time a comment of mine gets deleted, I remove that person from my Friends list. It sounds extreme, but I don't want to take the chance of having a similar situation in the future, at least with that individual. Plus, my doctor told me I had to stop punching my penis.
It's these types of experiences that make me appreciate Twitter. If Facebook is like talking to a room full of people with their back to you, Twitter is standing on a street corner with a megaphone. It's all about the one-way communication.
This may explain why I like to do stand-up comedy. I have the mic. I'm talking. The audience just listens.
From 1979-1983, I probably saw C.H.O.M.P.S. twenty times. I remember it vividly from the early days of cable. Since WGN and TBS had very little programming, they would fill the airwaves with these low-budget, family friendly movies they could get on the cheap. It's here I saw movies like C.H.O.M.P.S., Super Fuzz, and The Big Bus.
However, before today, if you had asked me what the plot of the movie was, I couldn't have told you. Nor could I have told you who was in it. Before today, C.H.O.M.P.S. was just a movie about a bionic dog played by Benji that could catch criminals and generally rip shit up. I also remember lots of close ups of C.H.O.M.P.S.'s face whenever his robotic brain was working. His eyes would glow and flicker with life. Then, the coup de grace. You could twist his head off and get at the electronics! It was bliss.
I recently had the great fortune to catch C.H.O.M.P.S. again for the first time in thirty years and to my great surprise it was filled with some of the greatest thespians the late 1970s had to offer:
Valerie Bertinelli plays Casey Norton, the spunky daughter of Ralph Norton, the owner of Norton Security. Valerie is at the peak of her hotness, a good 2 years from being ruined by Eddie Van Halen.
Conrad Bain plays Ralph Norton. When the producers found out that the Mr. Drummond took the part, I see them greedily rubbing their palms together, imaging the mountains of money this dynamo was going to earn them.
Wesley Eure (I think that's how you say it) plays the employee of Norton Security, Bertinelli's love interest, and the inventor of C.H.O.M.P.S., Brian Foster. His real name may seem unfamiliar, but if you see him you'd realize he's Will Marshall from Land of the Lost. Does this mean the Sleestacks are robots? Or maybe just that one smart one who could actually talk. I bet he was a robot. Did you know that episode was called 'The Stranger?' It was written by Walter Koenig, the dude who played Chekov on Star Trek. Isn't that crazy?
Jim Backus is Mr. Gibbs, the antagonist. He owns a rival technology firm that covets Foster's fanastic invention, but his many offers go rebuffed by Norton Security. Jim Backus is best known as Thurston Howell III from Gilligan's Island, but I prefer him from his earlier work in Operation: Bikini.
And a handful of other people who knocked around this and other crappy American International Pictures, making enough money to support their burgeoning coke habit.
At first glance, you may think C.H.O.M.P.S. is a piece of lazy filmmaking:
Slow motion and fast forward used liberally to simulate faster-than-normal speeds
Use of the Six Million Dollar Man NA-NA-NA-NA-NA sound effect.
Lots of closeups of the robotic dog to hide the fact that special effects guys only built the head.
Wooden acting.
Wacky soundtrack with lots of tuba and trombone.
And a rival dog that follows them around and comments on the action. Yes. You heard that right.
However, I offer this as a counter. I propose that the writer and director knew what they were doing. They knew they were making a turd and were unapologetic about it. They embraced the idea of a robotic dog and endeavored to make it the most preposterous movie they could. How do I know this? Right at the end of the film, the writer drops a hint. It's when the crooks are overheard over the CB recounting their diabolical scheme to steal C.H.O.M.P.S..
What happens when, as a comedian, you get up on stage and sit perfectly still for 5 minutes and never say a word? You get Stephen Hawking: Master Impressionist.
It's hard enough trying to understand someone's intent by looking at their face, it's even harder when you add the psychological distance created by a Facebook post. It's like talking to someone with their back turned to you. All you get is the raw, unfiltered message without the emotional cues provided by reading a person's face. Then add the fact that people are far too open on Facebook and you get a recipe for disaster. 
I recently had the great fortune to catch C.H.O.M.P.S. again for the first time in thirty years and to my great surprise it was filled with some of the greatest thespians the late 1970s had to offer:
